“You know?” Mal said, owlishly.
“Of course I know. Renata told me Rudy was going to send it out this morning,” Jo said. “Congratulations.”
Mal’s face warmed as he set the bag on the table. “Thank you,” he said.
Jo’s grin turned impish. “Where’s my reward?” she said. When Mal gave her a puzzled look, she squeezed her eyes shut and pushed out her lips.
Mal laughed, then leaned forward and pressed a soft peck on her lips.
To his amusement, Jo seemed shocked that he’d complied. She looked up at him with wide eyes, raising a hand to her mouth when he settled back onto his stone seat.
“You actually did it,” she said, voice high with wonder, folding onto the chair across from him. “Is this how it works now? I ask for a kiss, and you just give it to me?”
“You’re a menace,” Mal deadpanned.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Jo said. Then her playfulness cooled. “I have to say, I’m surprised that you want advice on how to build a social media brand. Doesn’t seem like it’d be your thing.”
“It’s not,” Mal confessed, wiping a hand down his face. He explained his reasoning—namely, that he was being strong-armed into creating one by his agent—and to his relief, Jo didn’t brush him off. He remembered then that, as natural as it looked, her brand too had been formed out of necessity rather than a desire for quasi celebrity. When he was done, Jo looked pensive.
“You know, everyone and their mom wants an influencer side hustle, but most people fail because they lack direction. My goal, as you know, was to make money, so I needed to grow a following as fast as I could without feeling like I was pandering or violating my ethics, but also without requiring too much time, because I was still in med school and I had to study. I had to make my followers interested inmeandmy thoughts, so that they would be more likely to accept what I could easily give,” she said. “So, Mal. Having heard that, my question for you is—what do you hope to achieve with your platform?”
“I want to sell books,” Mal said plainly.
“You’re already selling books,” Jo countered.
“Sustainably, I mean,” Mal explained. His gaze skittered to a beleaguered mother in a drenched sundress who was trying, and failing, to convince her child to put away his water gun. “Up until now, I’ve been riding on luck. I was lucky to find my agent. Lucky she found an editor who believed in my work. Lucky thatthe right people picked up my book at the right time.She Blooms at Duskgot good marketing, sure, but it also went viral a week after its release, and that’s probably part of why it did as well as it did. But that was just luck too; I had no hand in it. I know having my own platform might not move the needle, but if there’s a chance that it can, I want to take advantage of that. I’m down to do whatever is within my power to make sure I can really make this mycareer.”
Jo leaned forward on her elbows, squinting as if to better make him out, and Mal swallowed, nervous that he’d said the wrong thing. Whenever he’d proposed writing to Portia, even as a side hustle, she had scoffed.How are you supposed to provide for a family with that, she’d said.Starving between projects, all for a dream.But Mal was determined not to starve, determined to stay relevant until the second he decided, of his own volition, to lower his pen. But what if Jo thought he was foolhardy too? By confessing his concerns about the stability of his career, had he reminded her that she still had another option, someone who would never worry about money?
“Fine. I’ll help you,” Jo said, cutting off his train of thought. “But on two conditions.”
Condition number one, that Mal use his photography to help her generate her own content, was easy enough to agree to. Condition number two...
“I need you to stop saying it’s luck that got you where you are,” Jo said. “I’ve readShe Blooms at Dusk. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so absorbed in a story. You’retalented, Mal. Claim it.”
Blood rushed to Mal’s ears, drowning out the sounds of the park. He felt like a child again, beaming under the praise of the third-grade teacher he’d told his mother he was going to marry.
“I didn’t realize you finished it,” he managed, unable to meet her eyes.
“Of course I did,” Jo said. “And if getting a following means that you think you’ll be able to keep writing more like it, I’m happy to support that mission.” Before he could melt further onto the table, she slapped it like a gavel. “All right. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
After that, they went right to business. Jo had opinions about everything—from his username (“Malcolm J. Waters, just like on your book cover. No, don’t add any cutesy numbers or letters; you’re a professional.”) to his profile picture (“Why can’t I just use my headshot?” he’d whined, to which she informed him that he looked “dead in the eyes.”). He couldn’t populate his feed all at once; instead, “to take advantage of the algorithm,” she advised him to schedule a series of posts that dropped approximately forty-eight hours apart. There needed to beaesthetic cohesion(“Let’s use colors from your book cover. Those gorgeous blues, pinks, and oranges.”). Mal learned a lot of things: first, that this social media thing was significantly more deliberate than he’d previously thought; second, that despite her insistence that she was only in the business of “influencing” for the money, Jo took pride in her expertise. He watched her, bemused and a little nervous, as she dialed through the small gallery of self-portraits on his camera, her frown deepening with every flick of her thumb.
“When did you take these?” she said. “You don’t even look like this anymore.”
Mal peered at the screen.
“A year ago?” he said. He could understand what she meant; his locs were shorter then, and he’d put on considerably more bulk. Then there was his body language—stiff, uncomfortable, like he hardly believed that he was worthy of being documented.
Jo released an all-suffering sigh.
“All right. Well, there’s nothing in there good enough for a profile pic, let alone a post.” She tapped her fingers against the table, thinking. Then, abruptly, she sat up. “Hold on. I’ve got an idea. Play along with me for a minute.”
Mal inclined his head to give her permission, and Jo responded with a series of increasingly bizarre instructions: “Take a cupcake. Take a bite. Keep your mouth open for a sec... not that open. Flatten your tongue a little. Dip your nose in the frosting, just do it, I swear it’s cute. Put your arm on the table, yes, perfect,” all the while taking a flurry of photographs. When she was done, she reviewed her handiwork, then handed Mal back his camera with a smug smile.
“I’m not going to lie,” Mal said, wiping the frosting off his nose. “That was a little weird.”
“Okay, but look at the pictures first before you make a judgment,” Jo said, like there was no doubt in her mind that he would find them satisfactory.
